


The Great Pumpkin Respects Sincerity

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Preseries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-23
Updated: 2006-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, Dean, do you think this is a sincere pumpkin patch?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Pumpkin Respects Sincerity

**Author's Note:**

> Time frame: preseries; the last Halloween before the events in the flashbacks of "Something Wicked"  
> Disclaimer: Certain references are the property of Charles M. Schulz, © United Feature Syndicate, Inc. With apologies to Mr. Schulz, as well as to Lee Mendelson and Bill Melendez. Sam and Dean Winchester are the property of Eric Kripke and the CW.
> 
> A/N: written for the spn_halloween 2006 Halloween Fest, prompt #52: _Sam and Dean go on the search for the Great Pumpkin._ Thanks to marinarusalka and researchgrrrl for their superb beta reading skills.

"No, not that one either."

Sam crouches with his arms encircling the medium-sized pumpkin almost protectively and looks up at Dean, the autumn sun in his face so he has to squint. Still, the squint doesn't hide the imploring look on Sam's face.

"No," says Dean, and looks away so he won't give in. It's not the right one, not yet, no matter what Sam wants.

A dried corn stalk crunches under his feet as he keeps walking through the pumpkin patch. A crunch behind him tells him Sam is following. Around them, little kids eagerly race ahead of their parents towards the pumpkins, or grab a parent's hand and drag them along. At the bottom of the hill cars are parked on the grass by the road. Station wagons, minivans, sedans. They're all white, green, red, or a cheery shade of blue. The Impala stands out, long and lean and black. Dad's the only parent waiting in the car.

Dean had been somewhat puzzled when Dad had told them to get their jackets, he had a surprise for them, because Dad had been gloomy lately, even for him. Actually, gloomy didn't begin to cover it, he'd been snapping over a lot of really unimportant stuff, like Dean leaving the cap off the toothpaste or missing the target too many times during knife-throwing practice. He also got a far-off look in his eyes a lot, even if he was doing something important like looking at old books or cleaning the guns.

But then, this wasn't news exactly. Dad was always like that at this time of year.

"Not that one, either. C'mon Sam, we have to get the _best_ one."

The sun gleams off the zipper on Sam's bright red hoodie as he turns in a circle. "Hey, Dean, do you think this is a sincere pumpkin patch?"

"What?"

"Do you think The Great Pumpkin would pick this pumpkin patch, Dean?"

Dean put his palm to his face. "Not that again, Sammy."

But Sam's gotten distracted. He points. "That one?"

There it is, the perfect pumpkin, bigger than the others, without a blotch or brown spot on it, a good, deep rich orange like the leaves on the trees. It's off by itself, not touching any of the other pumpkins.

Dean wants to get this just right because they've never had a jack o'lantern, at least not since Mom died, and his memory of that is hazy. He's not sure why Dad decided they could do it this year but whatever. He'd take what he could get. It's not like they went trick-or-treating or to costume parties like other kids.

One of Dad's speeches about Halloween runs through his head as he follows Sam towards the perfect pumpkin: _it's the night when the veil between this world and the afterlife is thinnest. All kinds of things come out at Halloween. You have to respect it. Know what's out there. If everyone else did, I doubt they'd send their kids out trick or treating._

"So? Is this the one, Dean? Is it?"

"Yeah, that's the one." Sam's face lights up in a wide smile and Dean ruffles his hair. "Nice work, Sammy. Now carry it back to the car." It's really funny to watch how Sam's smile wipes away. The pumpkin looks as heavy as he is.

His little brother tilts his head to one side and stares down at the pumpkin. Then he kneels and puts his arm around it, grunting as he tries to pick it up. That doesn't work, of course, so Sam walks around and tries from the other side.

Pumpkins are fun, Dean decides. Hours and hours of entertainment. When Sam glances over at him, he removes the smirk from his face, giving Sam an innocent blank look. "Better hurry or Dad'll get tired of waiting." Dean drops his voice ominously. "He'll make us leave without _any pumpkin at all_."

"Liar, he would not."

"Would too."

"Would not." Sam frowns at the pumpkin, then tucks his lower lip in under his teeth.

"Dude, don't give yourself a brain spasm. Try rolling it, dummy."

So Sam digs his sneakers into the dirt and puts his shoulder to the pumpkin, pushing it onto its side. He balances it with his hands, then pushes again. It works, the pumpkin rolling over the ground. Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean, triumphant. He starts to run, pushing the pumpkin along faster and faster over the bumpy ground, across the pumpkin patch towards the car. The pumpkin bounces over a stone, slips from Sam's grasp, and starts to roll down the slight slope at the edge of the field.

"Aw, h-e-double-hockey-sticks," Sam shouts, while Dean thinks something much worse that would earn him The Glare of Doom from Dad if he said it out loud.

They run after the pumpkin. Dean cuts it off and carries it the rest of the way to the car. He figures he's tortured Sam enough, and Dad just might make them leave without their prize.

* * *

There's always a long list of strict instructions. Dean wonders why Dad doesn't write them down and be done with it; it'd be easier than remembering it all. He almost says it this year but bites his tongue. This is not a good time to test his father's patience.

 _Don't leave the apartment building._

They're allowed to go down to Mrs. Hatchet's on the first floor. She's got candy for all the kids in the building and she's a sweet old lady even if she smells of cough drops.

 _When you're in the apartment lock all three locks._

Like Dean doesn't know that one cold already.

 _Don't open the door for anyone but me._

As if.

 _Make sure the shotgun is loaded with iron rounds and you have holy water handy._

Dean would have done that without being told.

 _If I'm not back by dawn, you call Bobby._

He absolutely refuses to imagine Dad not getting back by dawn.

 _Watch after Sammy._

Now there's one thing he definitely doesn't need to be told.

Before he left, Dad had also given Dean permission to use one of the good hunting knives to carve the pumpkin, but only Dean was allowed to touch the knife, and they had to clean up the mess afterwards. Finally, Dad had put on his leather jacket and the red scarf Dean had given him last winter--he'd found it for fifty cents at a flea market--and left to deal with the werewolves in the next town over.

It makes Dean feel good, knowing Dad is wearing the red scarf. He knows it's silly, like something Sam might think, but he feels like it might help protect him. If Dean can't be along on the hunt this time, even as a lookout, at least Dad has Dean's scarf. If nothing else, it will keep him warm.

* * *

"Hey, Sam!" Dean takes out the hunting knife, very carefully removing it from its leather sheath, and carries it over to the table where Dad had put the pumpkin.

Sam tears himself away from the TV, where he's watching a black-and-white monster movie, and runs across the room. His sneakers squeak on the linoleum when the carpeting ends and the kitchen area of the small apartment begins.

"Now, the first thing to remember about pumpkin carving is you have to remove all the guts first."

Nodding, Sam climbs up onto a chair and sits on his knees so he can see better.

"And the face has to be scary."

Sam nods again.

Dean only knows how to do this because Caleb showed him last year, but he acts like he's been doing this for years, plunging the knife into the top of the pumpkin with the same decisiveness he'd once seen his father use to kill a hydra.

A small sound escapes Sam. Dean pauses. Sam has both hands clamped over his mouth as he stares transfixed at the knife sticking out of the pumpkin.

"What?" Dean lets go of the knife handle.

Removing his hands from his mouth, Sam swallows. He looks pale. "It's the perfect pumpkin," he whispers. "But you...you stabbed it."

"It's a piece of fruit. Have to cut it to carve the face."

"You're a pumpkin killer!"

Dean puts his palm to his face again. It was going to be a long Halloween.

* * *

"I think the pumpkin patch looked sincere, Dean. The Great Pumpkin might pick that one. He always picks the pumpkin patch that's most sincere and he brings toys to all the kids and he grants wishes..."

"Sam, The Great Pumpkin does _not_ grant wishes."

"Yes, he does. He brings toys and grants wishes, but he has to find a _sincere_ pumpkin patch."

The pumpkin of perfection is carved, the insides tossed in the garbage, the seeds drying on foil on the counter--he'd salt them and put them in the oven later, another trick Caleb taught him. It's a scary jack o'lantern face, and Dean regards it with pride.

"Hey, Dean, can we wait in the pumpkin patch for The Great Pumpkin? It's not far from here, it only took Dad five minutes to drive us back. Can we?"

"No, Sam. Dad said we couldn't leave the building, remember?"

"Oh."

"Let's go downstairs and get some candy from Mrs. Hatchett."

Sam brightens at that. Dean opens the chain, the dead bolt, the second lock, and the bottom lock. As they go out into the hall, Sam says, "I think it looked like a very sincere pumpkin patch."

Dean locks the door behind them carefully. "Sure, Sam."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure. It was a very, very sincere pumpkin patch, it was the most sincere pumpkin patch in the history of pumpkin patches."

Sam sucks in his breath, his eyes bright in the dim light.

Before Dean can ask him what he's got his panties in a twist about, they reach the second floor landing.

Something jumps out at them from the shadows. A hideous, hairy face, arms reaching out. Sam screams.

He doesn't pause to think or look. Before he even realizes what he's doing, Dean jumps at the thing, bringing it down to the cracked linoleum floor.

It's only when he hears the human voice, muffled and shrieking "Don't hit me!" that Dean stops, his arm drawn back with his hand curled into a fist. His knees are digging into some kid's chest. Dean rips off the wolfman mask. It's the boy who lives in 2B. Dean can't remember his name. He's a year or so older than Dean, and bigger.

Dean climbs off the kid, who snatches his wolfman mask back.

"What's your problem, you freak?" The kid gets to his feet. "Can't you take a joke? It's Halloween." He glares at Dean, then at Sam, who's backed up against the radiator, shaking. "My mom's right. Your whole family is weird." His lip curls and then he shoves past Dean and stomps towards his apartment. "I'm telling," he calls back.

"You do and I'll shove that mask down your throat!" But the apartment door has already slammed behind him.

"Dammit." Dean rubs his fingers roughly over his hair and sits down on the bottom step. "That whole thing was stupid. Why'd you have to scream like that? It was just a mask." He clenches his fingers, his heart hammering in his chest, feeling like a heel for saying all that stuff and wondering why he's saying it. Because he knows better, and Sam had reasons to be afraid.

Maybe Dean's tired of being a freak. The kid in 2B would tattle to his mom, who would come and scold Dad, and Dad, who was out hunting real-life werewolves right now this minute, would say reasonable, calm things and promise to give Dean a stern talking to.

But Dad knows the score even better than Dean. Nothing would come of it in the end.

"It's okay, Sam." Dean gets up and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, then rubs his back. "It was just a costume. Like the old movie on TV."

"I know," Sam says shakily.

"Some if it is make-believe, you know," Dean says. "Sometimes. Like The Great Pumpkin. Or Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny."

Sam turns away, towards the stairs. "The Great Pumpkin isn't make-believe."

* * *

They load up on candy corns and Reece's Pieces and Tootsie Rolls. Dean eats so many peanut M&M's he thinks he might hurl. He doesn't care how thin the barrier between worlds is on Halloween night, or if a hundred ghosts attack, he wishes he could go trick -or-treating.

Mrs. Hatchet, who wears glasses, doesn't notice when Dean stuffs more M&M's into his pockets. He thanks her politely, then takes Sam's hand and they leave.

Upstairs they flop in front of the TV to watch more of the all-night monster movie marathon. They're up to _Night of the Living Dead_. Dean lies on his back on the carpet, feeling dazed, hand resting on his chest, unable to eat any more candy but wishing he could stand to. The TV is the only light they have on, and Dean likes the eerie flickering glow.

Sam lies on his stomach nearby, knees bent with his sneakers tapping together above his back as he scribbles with a pencil on a sheet of paper propped on a Latin grammar book.

"Whatcha writing, Sam?"

"A letter to The Great Pumpkin."

Dean sits up. "Are you still going on about that?"

His brother bends his head over the letter again.

"There's no such thing, Sammy."

Sam keeps on writing.

Dean flops back again, arms spread wide, and groans. "I give up. Send him my regards."

"The Great Pumpkin knows which kids have been good and which kids have been bad," Sam says, still writing.

"Okay, I get it."

"He'll pick that pumpkin patch."

"Sure he will, Sammy."

"He--"

"I'm trying to watch a movie here!"

It's quiet except for the screaming on the TV for about two minutes and twenty seven seconds.

"Dean?"

"Whaaaaaat?"

"Can we please go wait for The Great Pumpkin in the pumpkin patch? Please?"

"No, Sam."

"Pleasepleaseplease--"

"No!"

"pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease--"

"Oh fer chrissakes!" Dean puts his hands over his ears.

"Pleeeeease?"

Dean bangs the back of his head slowly and repeatedly against the carpet. Then he glances at his watch. Nine-thirty. Crap. Dad won't be home for hours and hours.

* * *

Around midnight, Sam passes out on the floor, his cheek pressed against the letters. When Dean rolls him over there's lead smudged on his face.

He pokes Sam awake, nudges him into the bathroom, makes him brush his teeth, helps him wash the smudge off his face, then sends Sam off to bed. He's big enough now to put on his own pajamas.

Dean settles down in front of the TV again, where _Abbott and Costello Meet The Mummy_ is just starting.

* * *

He wakes with a jolt and blinks at the flickering illumination of the TV. The channel is now showing _The Thing_.

There's an odd feeling in his belly but it's not the candy.

Something's wrong.

Dean glances at his watch: two a.m.

Unable to shake the uneasiness, Dean reaches out and smacks the off button on the TV. The silence that follows is almost too much to bear. He gets up and turns on the hall light, then hurries to his father's room. The door's open, the bed neatly made, hospital corners tight with military precision.

The hollow feeling in his stomach grows worse. Dad should have been home by now, he figures, although there have been nights later than this. Dawn, Dad said. It's too early to call Bobby.

Without the TV on it's too dark and silent in the apartment. Dean follows the hall to the room he shares with Sam. Maybe he should go to sleep. Dad's a good hunter. He'd be okay. Everything would be okay.

There's a familiar small lump under the covers in the other bed. Dean kicks off his sneakers. He's too sleepy to brush his teeth or put on his pajamas. He lies back on his bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, straining his ears for the sound of Dad's key in the lock.

Something is definitely off. Dean sits up again. It's a cliche he is very familiar with from watching horror movies, but sometimes cliches work because they're true.

It's too quiet.

He rolls off his bed and goes over to Sammy's. When he yanks the blanket off, there are two pillows in the bed instead of his little brother.

The blanket drops from Dean's hand as his vision goes fuzzy at the edges and narrows. "Sam?" He says, and his voice sounds alien to him, he can't remember sounding like that before. "Sam?" He says again, louder, and then the yell breaks out of him: " _SAMMY!_ "

He runs into Dad's room, turning on all the lights, and finds the shotgun in the closet and the rounds in Dad's dresser drawer. Then he checks the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, and the hall closet. He loads the gun. It's too heavy for him and he drops the cartridges twice before he gets it right.

Having checked the whole apartment, Dean stands alone in the middle of the darkened living room, holding the shotgun in both hands. The chill of the autumn night stirs the plain white shade on the half-open window, giving him goosebumps. His breathing rasps loudly in the stillness.

Something crackles beneath his bare feet. Dean looks down. There's a paper stuck to his foot. In the half-light from the hall, makes out the big, childish handwriting.

DEAR GRET PUMPKIN,

I HOPE TO SEE YOU ON HALLOWEEN. DEAN SAYS THE PUMPKIN PATCH IS VERY SINSERE...

"Sonuvabitch," Dean says.

Relief and fury combined make his body too warm. He goes back to their room and with quick, fumbling movements yanks his sneakers on. Then he grabs his jacket and the shotgun. After a moment's consideration, he gathers up the blanket, too.

* * *

It's just a few miles down the road. Normally Dean could run it easily but the shotgun's heavy and the blanket's even heavier. The autumn air rasps down his throat, his arms ache from carrying and he has a stitch in his side. None of that matters except he has to get to that pumpkin patch as fast as he can.

A car's headlight approaches and Dean slides down into the drainage ditch, crouching until it goes by. It's a red pickup truck, not the Impala. If it had been the Impala Dean isn't sure if he would have run out screaming for his father's help, or if he would have remained hidden. It's not like Sam's gone anywhere dangerous. It's just a pumpkin patch. It was a good bet if Dad found out about all this he'd be pretty pissed off. Dean climbs out of the ditch and runs on, focusing on the hope that Dad never finds out about this, rather than what it would be like if he gets to the pumpkin patch and Sam isn't there.

But he is.

In his desperate rush, Dean forgot the flashlight, but there's a little bit of moon left, stars, and some lights from the barn up the hill. He spies the spot of red almost immediately. Sam had put his clothes back on before going out, including his red hoodie. He's curled up with his head pillowed on one bent elbow, his back against a pumpkin, peacefully asleep, but shivering.

Dean falls to his knees, dropping the shotgun and the blanket. His shoulders sag as he gasps for breath, finally able to stop, to rest. When he's able to breathe again, Dean puts the blanket over Sam, then nudges him with his sneaker.

"Sam!" he says sharply.

Sam stirs, mutters something, then sits up, looking comically disoriented, his hair in his eyes. "Dean?"

"What the hell are you doing, Sam?"

"Waiting for the--"

"Don't say it," Dean snaps out, through gritted teeth.

Drawing away from him, Sam pulls the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, staring hard at Dean.

"Are you mad at me?" Sam says in a very small voice.

He draws in a long breath and lets it out before answering. "Yes."

Neither of them says anything for a few minutes. Then Dean picks up the shotgun and reaches for Sam's arm.

"We're going home," he says.

"Wait, Dean..."

"Dad will be back soon. If he gets home and we're not there, he'll go crazy."

"But..."

"No."

But Sam tugs on his sleeve, forcing Dean to bend closer. "He's _real_ , Dean. I know it."

If he starts arguing with Sam now, they'll be there all night. He can tell, the way Sam looks and sounds, this isn't something that can be won with logic.

"We'll wait for one more hour. One. Hour." Dean sets the shotgun down. "Scoot over," he says.

So Sam lifts the blanket, and they share, sitting in the darkness in the middle of a pumpkin patch. The wool army blanket is a little scratchy. After a short while Sam gets sleepy and leans his head against Dean's arm.

In the starlight the pumpkins look like weird shapes, rocks on the planet Mars perhaps, and the rows of corn at the edge of the patch promise to hide all kinds of things. The stalks rustle in the wind. Dean touches his fingers to the cold metal of the shotgun barrel, reassuring himself that it's there. The ground is muddy. The wind shifts; Dean smells manure and hay. All the lights in the farmhouse are dark. It's a nice house, freshly painted. A windchime on the front porch rings distantly in the night, the sound drifting across the field towards them.

There's a flicker in the corner of his eye. Dean tenses and his hand closes around the stock of the gun as he turns towards the cornfield.

At first it's just a dark wisp, but then it takes on further definition, melting out of the stalks. Dean rubs his eyes, thinking maybe he fell asleep.

The thing is tall and thin, the color of dried corn stalks, pumpkins, and changing autumn leaves, the hues shifting constantly. He can't make out anything as definite as arms and legs, but there is a face. Two hollow spots that could be eyes make Dean think of ancient things, things as old as what his father hunts, maybe even older. He smells beer.

The thing, whatever it is, drifts towards them, and Dean swears the head has tilted to one side curiously, almost the way Sam does it.

Dean scrambles to his feet, grabbing up the shotgun. He struggles to raise it to his shoulder as Sam awakes, sits up. When he spies the...spirit, ghost, whatever...his small body freezes and his face goes blank with wonder.

"Don't." Sam tugs on the leg of Dean's blue jeans. "Dean, don't, don't sho--"

The gunshot is the loudest thing Dean has ever heard. He staggers back with the force of the gun's kick. Sam cringes down, wrapping his arms over his head.

The spirit dissolves, carrying away with it the faint beer scent again, mingled with other things, burning wood, sweet corn, pumpkin pie.

It's gone. Dean lowers the shotgun, unable to block out the memory of the eyes.

Sam's attack finds him completely unprepared. He manages to drop the shotgun as his brother's light weight barrels into him, fists flailing.

"Why? Why did you shoot it? Why? Why?"

Bracing his feet, Dean grabs Sam's shoulders, holding him off at arms' length. Sam's fists swing uselessly in the air, inches from Dean's midsection. Then he reaches for Dean's arms, trying to pry his grip from his shoulders, trying to kick Dean. So Dean does the only thing he can. He turns Sam around and lifts him off the ground, holding him tight while his brother kicks and struggles.

He puts his mouth close to Sam's ear. "Stop, Sammy, it's okay, calm down, it's okay."

Finally Sam's struggles slow, his breath hitching. Gently, Dean puts him down, then kneels in front of him.

"Tell me," he says.

"The Great Pumpkin grants wishes," Sam says, as if this is the most logical thing in the world, ever.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I don't get it."

"I was going to ask him to give Mommy back. So Dad wouldn't be so sad at Halloween anymore. So you'd be happy."

An owl hoots, and the wind rattles the corn stalks. Dean battles against the ache that swells in his chest, and wins.

He grabs Sam, pulling him into a hug, holding on tight. "You blockhead," he says.

* * *

Together they walk the dark road back to the apartment building, Dean holding the shotgun, the blanket around Sam's shoulders, trailing like a cloak, picking up dirt and bits of dead leaves along the road.

When they get upstairs, the place is still dark and Dean lets out the breath he'd been holding. There's no need for Dad to ever know. He might ask questions about the mud stains on their jeans and the dirty blanket, but Dean can maybe do the laundry before Dad ever sees.

He sits Sam down on his bed, tugs off Sam's sneakers. Sam's so sleepy he doesn't even try to lie down after that so Dean has to push him down. He covers him with the blanket.

Exhaustion hits him all at once, and his legs feel wobbly as he staggers across the room to his own bed. He manages to kick off his sneakers before his head hits the pillow.

Before he falls asleep, when he closes his eyes he can still see the two hollow eyes, looking at him.

Dean wonders if he should have pulled the trigger, but what else could he do?

He knows how it is, what's out there.

Sam's home safe, and that's what matters.

~END


End file.
